Return to Sender
by AJ Black1
Summary: Dean tears up a chain letter, causing his family to be torn apart as well.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own _Supernatural _and am making no money from writing this story.

Author's Note: I have not forgotten about _Six Months to Go_. My husband started working in an inner-city school in March, and has been super-busy, so we haven't been able to work on it together in a while. Soon. It's coming soon. Meanwhile, this is an all-me story. First attempt at Wee/TeenChesters.

**Return to Sender**

Fourteen-year-old Dean Winchester slammed his math book down on the kitchen table and turned up his walkman to play Metallica's _One_ even louder. Ten-year-old Sam came in the front door, holding a stack of mail.

"Dean, you're gonna go deaf," Sam said.

"Long as I go Def Leopard," Dean answered, "I don't care." He pulled off his headphones. "Why do you always go get the mail, Sammy? We never get anything but bills and ads for stuff we can't afford."

"Sometimes we get something." Sam leafed through the stack, frowning in concentration. He held up a business size envelope. "See, look, you got a letter!"

Dean took it from Sam, examining the envelope.

Mr. Dean Winchester

1057 Lark Street

Saginaw, MI 48601

Sam read over his shoulder. "It looks like it was typed on a real typewriter. Man, who even has those?"

Dean shoved him away.

"My letter, dude. Back off."

Sam shrugged, and went over to their living room couch to sit in front of his science homework. Dean started to open the envelope. The house the Winchesters were renting used to belong to an old lady who'd died a year ago. The family didn't want to live in the house themselves, but didn't want to sell it yet either. The furniture was worn but well taken care of, and other than a few stains on the carpet and walls, it was one of the nicer places the Winchesters had stayed in. The boys had to share a room, as usual, which Dean pretended to hate, but really didn't mind—much. Dean unfolded the crisp white paper and read:

Dear Chosen:

You are one of only a few to receive this letter, chaining friends from across the world together. You must sign your name under the others, and send the letter on to seven of your friends. If you ignore it, you will lose what you love the most.

A.R.

About twenty names were signed underneath the initials. "Bullshit," Dean muttered, and put the letter aside. The letters and numbers in his math book gave him a headache just by looking at them. He closed the cover of the math book firmly and checked his watch. He smiled, stood, and opened the refrigerator door. Taking one of his father's beers, he called, "Want one, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes lit up from across the room. "Yeah, definitely!" He held up his hand. Dean moved to throw him a can, and then put it on the counter. "I forgot—you're too young." He popped the tab and began to chug, ignoring the protests of his brother.

"I'm too young? Last time I checked, you weren't twenty-one, Dean!" Sam put his science book down, crossed the room, and tried to push past his brother to the refrigerator door handle.

Dean smacked at his hand, and set down the half-empty can. "Uh uh, little bro. No Miller Time for you."

Sam glared at him. "If you can drink, so can I!" He tried pushing past Dean again. Faster than a dog after a tennis ball, Dean had Sam in a headlock.

"Lemme go!" Sam growled, kicking at the back of Dean's legs and stepping on his feet. Dean held Sam tighter and laughed.

John Winchester chose that day, that moment, to get back early from work. He was making money under the table at Mike's Mechanics Shop, trying to put some cash away before he and the boys had to take off again. He stopped cold in the doorway. The boys' fighting was nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, John encouraged it, as long as it was fun-fighting. It made good practice. But the beer on the counter was a big surprise. Dean let go of Sam, eyes widening at the sight of his father. Sam, oblivious, punched him in the ribs. Dean barely moved.

"That's enough, Sam." John closed the door with a bang, the brass knocker bumping against the wood a couple times. Sam turned and unconsciously stepped behind his brother.

"Dad, hey, we were just doing our homework." Dean slid a box of macaroni and cheese in front of the beer can. "Want dinner?"

"Dean, go to your room. Sam, come chat with me." John flopped down on the couch, feigning relaxation. A moment later, he pulled a pen from under his thigh, and tossed it onto Sam's school book.

Sam clutched at his brother's arm as Dean started to walk away. "You cover me, Sammy," Dean warned. "Be cool." He walked down the hall. Sam looked at the back of John's head and walked toward him.

"Get me a beer, son," John said. Sam opened the fridge. "No, no, the one on the counter is fine."

Sam paused, then closed the door. "It's from last night, Dad, remember? It's all warm and stuff."

"It'll be fine. Bring it over."

Sam did as he was told, nervously sitting beside his father. John took the can from him. He turned it in his fingers, before setting it on the coffee table.

"Funny, it's still cold, but it's half-empty. Can you think of why that would be?" John waited.

His son squirmed on the couch. "We had a ghost about half an hour ago, that old lady who used to live here. She was mad we were in her house. She made it real cold, like Antarctica. Dean killed her, but it's still freezing in here, and—"

John slammed his open palm down on the coffee table, jolting the can and Sam's book. "The truth."

Sam hated yelling. It always made him cry like a girl. He whispered, "That is the truth."

John stood up and towered over his youngest boy. "Samuel Winchester, you know better than this. I'm going to say it one more time. Tell me the truth."

Still just mad enough at Dean for not sharing, Sam replied, "It's Dean's." He lowered his head.

"Go to your room. Send Dean out here." John was eerily calm.

Picking up his book and backpack, Sam went down the hall to the boys' shared room. Dean lay on the top bunk bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Dad wants you," Sam mumbled. He set his things down on the old desk in the room. He kept his back turned. Dean sat up and jumped down from the top bed. He came toward his brother.

"Did you rat me out, Sammy? Did you?" He spun Sam around by the shoulder and saw his red eyes and wet cheeks. "Damn it, you did!" He punched Sam in the shoulder, hard. Sam fell back against the desk. "I cover you all the time, man, and you can't cover me once? One freakin' time?" Dean shoved a finger into Sam's chest. "You're a pain in the ass, Sammy! You're always in my way, and I always have to take care of you. I hate you!" Dean could hardly breathe, he was so mad.

John appeared in the doorway. "Out here now, Dean." Dean stomped by him, and John appraised Sam. "You okay?"

Once his son nodded, John followed Dean. Sam went to crawl under the covers of the lower bunk.

Dean sat at the kitchen table, flipping through his math book. John came into the room and stood behind him.

"What the hell were you doing, Dean? Drinking?" John paused. "Talking to your brother like that? Hitting him? We're gonna have a long talk. A long, loud talk."

Dean muttered, "Yes, sir." He glanced at the stupid chain letter beside his book, and tore in half.

"What was that?" John demanded. He clamped a hand on his son's shoulder. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Dean ripped the letter in half again and threw the pieces on the floor. He felt dizzy, then his vision went black for a moment.

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" A woman's voice asked. Dean's vision cleared and he was sitting at someone else's kitchen table. A kitchen table in a huge, nice house. He jumped up.

"Whoa, where am I?" He asked. He had never seen this woman before. She was petite with short blond hair, and dark eyes. She stared at him, wrinkles creasing her forehead.

"You're home, Dean."

He stared at this woman for a moment and shook his head. "Must not have eaten much today to be drunk off half a can of beer," he muttered.

She put her hands on her hips. "Beer? What beer?"

Dean stood up. "Where's my dad? Where's my brother? Who are you?" He stepped closer to her.

The angry expression on her face changed to sad and pitying. "Oh, Dean. You're not drunk—you're having a relapse of post-traumatic stress syndrome." She sat down, a hand on his arm to encourage him to sit down, too.

He didn't budge. "What are you talking about? One minute I'm in my house; the next I'm here." He watched her face intently.

"Dean, don't you remember what happened?"

He shook his head. "Tell me. Tell me everything." He sat down across from her. She frowned and tilted her head, wondering where to begin.

"You've been here for five months. I'm Georgia Donaldson, your foster mom. Your foster dad is Charlie, and a foster sister named Ashley."

"Why am I here?" Dean pressed. "Where's my family?"

Georgia sighed. "Your brother was killed five months ago in a house fire, and your father is in prison for his murder."

Dean didn't hear anything else before his head hit the wooden tabletop.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and am making no money from writing this story

Author's Note: Six Months to Go…soon. Who else hates that word? ;) I'm sorry that uploads aren't fast, even in snail terms, in this story & for "Six Months." I won't promise to be faster, and I can't speak for my husband, but as for me, I'll try to do better!

**Return to Sender, Chapter 2**

When Dean woke up, the first thing he saw was the underside of a bunkbed. His father and brother smiled down at him from a rare photo, Sam holding a soccer ball. Dean sat up fast. "Sam!"

A blond girl sitting beside the bed jumped. "You scared me, asshole."

Dean suddenly remembered what he'd been told and swung his legs over the side of the bed, slouched over.

The girl beside him—Ashley, Georgia had said—was skinny and her hair was down to the middle of her torso. She was maybe fourteen or fifteen. "Mom, he's up!" She stared at Dean. "You really freaked her out. She almost took you to the hospital, but Dad checked you out and said you just fainted." She nearly whispered the word 'fainted,' as if she was embarrassed for him.

Dean stood up, blushing. Winchesters didn't faint.

Ashley stood behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I won't tell anyone at school."

Facing her, Dean asked, "You're Ashley, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "For the fiftieth time in five months, yeah. Ashley."

"Sorry."

She shrugged. "Posttraumatic stress is a bitch. It's okay."

Georgia entered the room, wiping flour-covered hands on her jeans. "How do you feel, Dean?"

"I want to see my dad," Dean blurted out. He watched as surprise, anger, and concern came and went across her delicate features.

"He's not doing well, Dean. He's on a lot of medication. Since he kil—since your brother, he's been quite unstable." She put a hand on his arm. "It's not a good idea."

Pulling away, Dean shouted, "Screw good idea! I want to see my dad!"

A red-haired, medium build man entered the room. "What's going on? Is this about wanting to see John again? Remember what happened last time?" He leaned against the doorframe, eyeing the young man.

"Obviously not, Dad." Ashley just couldn't help herself.

_What's his name, what's his name…Charlie_, Dean reminded himself.

"Attitude," Charlie warned. "Dean, come out to the living room. Come on, guys." He turned to leave.

"Movie time," Ashley told Dean.

"I'm not watching any movie," he replied, defensive.

Charlie looked back toward Dean. "This you need to see. It's from your therapist."

"I have a therapist…oh, God, this is worse than I thought."

Georgia put an arm around Dean's shoulders as they followed Charlie down the hall.

Dean sat in a cushy green armchair, arms crossed. Charlie turned on the TV and hit the play button on the VCR. He and Georgia sat together on the loveseat, Georgia watching Dean for reaction. Ashley went into the kitchen, gathering her hair into a ponytail. The video started to play. A slightly overweight woman with gray hair spoke to the camera, the hint of a sympathetic smile on her face.

"Dean, my name is Isabella Thomas, and I've been your counselor the past five months. Dr. Jennings and Dr. Malik from County Hospital agree with my diagnosis that you have posttraumatic stress syndrome. You had a horrific family tragedy on the night of May 2, 1993. Your brother Sam was killed in a house fire."

The video cut to Channel 4 news footage of their rental house surrounded by crime scene tape. A fire engine, ambulance, and two police cars sat in front of the house. Dean saw himself on a stretcher. His father was being restrained by three police officers. He was shouting something, but Dean couldn't quite make it out. He jumped up from the chair and sat directly in front of the TV to see if he could hear better.

"Somebody turn it up."

"It's up all the way, Dean," Georgia said softly. "Police say he was yelling about a demon."

What Dean saw next made his heart stop. Two EMTs carried a second stretcher out of the house. The figure on it was enclosed in a black body bag.

"Jesus," Dean exclaimed, getting to his feet. "This is a joke, right? It's all a joke! Where's Sammy? Where's my dad?" Tears rolled down his cheeks, dropping onto the front of his Metallica T-shirt. Georgia made a move to comfort him, but Charlie put a hand on her shoulder, and she settled back into the loveseat.

Isabella Thomas came back on the screen. She leaned toward the camera. "Dean, you've refused to accept this as reality. To move on with your life, you've got to start the grieving process. This is not a joke. Go visit your father in Grovetown Correctional. Charlie or Georgia will take you. Go visit your brother's grave next to the Redemption Chapel in town." She paused and smiled sadly. "You have people who love you and want you to get well. Let us help you start the healing process."

Dean slammed his palm on top of the TV and ran out the front door. Georgia called something after him—'wait' maybe—but he didn't stop.

It was completely dark by the time Dean made it to Redemption Chapel. It was a small country-ish white chapel, popular for weddings mostly, and feel-good Sunday services. Sam had dragged Dean there a couple times. What his little brother saw in church and praying, Dean would never understand. _Now I never will_, he thought. He berated himself. _I can't accept this. This is some freaky-assed dream, a djinn, or a witch. Something._

He walked through the gateway of the cemetery with no idea where to look. The sickly sweet smell of decaying and fresh flowers overwhelmed him. Sam always imitated Toucan Sam when Froot Loops commercials came on. "Follow my nose! It always knows!" It annoyed the piss out of Dean. Now, he'd give anything to hear Sam's voice, even if he was imitating that damn bird.

Dean looked over the rows upon rows of gravestones, feeling discouraged at the time it was going to take to find his brother's stone—if it was there, if it was really true.

He glared at a white angel statue towering over him. "What's your problem?" The angel just kept on smiling. As Dean brushed by her, lightning flashed in the sky. "Great."

"_Dean!" Six-year old Sam burst into Dean's bedroom and jumped onto the bed. Dean startled awake, finding himself eye-to-eye with his little brother._

"_Sammy—what are you doing? It must be two in the morning or something." A glance at the alarm clock told him it was four-fifteen. He looked back at Sam, who was shaking and wide-eyed. "What's wrong?"_

_A crash of lightning made Sam wince and get under the covers with his brother. "I hate storms. Can I sleep here?"_

"_You have your own room, dude. It's just lightning. Here, I'll walk you." Dean moved to climb over Sam and out of bed, but his brother grabbed him into a hug._

"_Please, let me stay. I won't hog the blankets." Sam was still shaking._

"_Why are you so afraid of lightning?" Dean sat up and rubbed Sam's back. "It can't hurt you."_

"_A kid at school told me lightning is when the sky catches on fire. Mom died in a fire, so what if you or Dad die too?" Sam didn't look at Dean, just buried himself deeper into the pillow._

"_That kid's a little bitch," Dean snapped, tugging at Sam's arm. He pulled the scared boy into a tight embrace. "Lightning's just particles of energy or something; I don't remember what my science teacher said. But it can't hurt you."_

"_I don't want you to go away," Sam said, pulling away from Dean. Tears ran down his cheeks. "I love you."_

_Dean groaned. "Don't be a girl, Sammy. Come on, you can sleep here tonight."_

"_Yes!" Sam bounced on the bed, and then got under the covers, leaving so much room for Dean that he was on the very edge of the mattress._

_Dean settled under, then pulled Sam more toward the center of the bed. "Come on, go to sleep." Sam snuggled closer to Dean, his breathing evening out. "I love you, too."_

"_I heard that," Sammy said, giggling. "You're a girl, too, Dean."_

"_You didn't hear nothing. Now, quit digging those skinny-ass elbows into my back."_

"_Sorry."_

"_It's okay. Goodnight, Sammy."_

"_Goodnight, Dean." Sam turned his head to whisper into Dean's ear. "But I still heard you."_

_Dean smiled and rolled over._

Dean pushed away the memory, now running through the cemetery. _It can't be true, it just can't, _he thought.

He rounded a corner when one grave caught his eye. It was alone under an oak tree, surrounded by wet homemade construction-paper cards and dandelions. The stone looked pretty new. Dean examined the writing on it: "Samuel David Winchester, May 2, 1983-May 2, 1993. Beloved son and brother. Taken too soon."

"Oh, hell no. No!" Dean flopped down in front of the gravestone, resting his face against the ground as rain pelted down on him. "Sammy!" He pounded a fist against the wet earth.

The next morning, near dawn, Dean Winchester knocked on the door of Charlie and Georgia's house. Georgia opened the door. "Dean! We were so—"

Wiping mud from his face, Dean said, expressionless, "Take me to my dad. Now."


End file.
